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 FOO TT & MOU TT H


Why do people return to the TT year after year after endless year? How has a simple road race survived and flourished for almost a hundred years? What do people find so damned compulsive about the TT?

I should admit right from the start that despite more than 20 years on 2 wheels, until a few weeks ago I was still a TT virgin. The thought of spending most of my day sitting on a Manx drystone wall waiting hours for a 2 second glimpse of a racing bike which looks exactly like the last racing bike and in all likelihood exactly like the next, had never really rung my bell. I prefer the more venal delights of getting cold, wet, muddy and pissed in the middle of a rally field thank you, and what do you want to watch racing for anyway?

The only previous experience I had had of the island was attending a friend's wedding on a wet weekend in March 6 years ago. As at most weddings, the combination of smelly Great Aunt Elsie's embrocation, screaming kids and one side of the family fighting the other over 'what that lot over there said about our Maureen' and the subsequent seeking of refuge in several small imbibements tend to play havoc with the memory centres.

This time however I was determined to take away some memories other than those involving Douglas prom's roadside drainage system. I almost succeeded. I was there with my friend Ian, thanks entirely due to those wonderful people at Streetfighter magazine. We were on a busman's holiday providing paramedic cover for the Run Wot Ya Brungs at the Ramsay Sprint and the hilariously dangerous antics of the Straightliner travelling stunt show and comedy revue.

But as for the TT? What was it like with no racing? Were the crowds clogging the prom, and could you still walk from the ferry terminal to Summerlands over the endless line of bikes without your feet ever touching tarmac? Did you have to collect several pints at one go from Busheys just to avoid terminal polydipsia in the wait for another round? With that kind of pedigree, it was pre-evident that things were not to be the same this year. The Tynwald's decision to cancel the racing will doubtless be argued over for years to come, but rightly or wrongly the decision was made and the fate of the 2001 TT was sealed from that moment.

Not that this was an entirely bad move. The resulting drop in attendance figures coupled with the course being permanently open meant that my poor bike returned to this septic isle desperately in need of a service and minus much of its footpegs and sidestand.

Those who are regular attendees will talk to you about every little bend and twist over the 20-something miles of the course - Kates Cottage, Bungalow, Veranda, Gooseneck, Governors - until your brain turns to jam and dribbles out of your ears. I'm not sure how they remember this, because my memories of my first blast over the hallowed ground are few and sketchy. They are interrupted by the more concrete reminiscences of a coffee stop at Ramsay, the breathtaking view from Snaefell and the sad, eerie quiet of the empty grandstand. Other than that, all those evocative names which sing like a geographic Siren to the speed-hungry are still almost as without a frame of reference as they were before I found the true meaning of despair courtesy of the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company.

I mean, it's hard to immerse yourself in the natural splendour of this small rock in the middle of the Irish Sea when you're larraping through bend after bend after hill after village after town at speeds that I usually reserve for a nasty emergency call on blues-and-twos at work. Determined not to let the side down, I let the hair down instead and wrung the bollocks out of my bolide. It loved it! The roads over the course are continental quality and pothole free. Not so for the rest of the island unfortunately, but that (and the sudden encounter between a bee the size of a Zeppelin and my visor right on the way into a very sharp bend near Castletown) is another story.

Eyes up; plan; far side, check oncoming, note lay of road a couple of bends ahead and adjust road position; replan; don't ease off through bends, keep throttle nailed; glance hurridly at the blurs that were once the mirrors as a straight gives you the (all-to-brief) opportunity to suck sweet mountain air into your hungry lungs. God, remember to breathe! And so it continued, concentration beyond the max and riding to the limit point until the outskirts of Douglas and the grandstand hove disappointingly into view. Knackered and shuddering with now-unusable adrenaline, I was elated. The 30 mph stroll through Douglas back to the hotel seemed to take as long as the mountain and was as good a cure for insomnia as I've yet found. And all I wanted to do was go back out and do it all again! But work beckoned and I repaired to my room to attach Mr Sensible Head for a while.

I don't suppose you want to hear about the rich and colourful history of Man, but away from the stench of burnt rubber and the screams from a hundred tyres being shagged from behind, the island can well satisfy the curiosity of a Dark Ages history nut. A mention must be made of the new Story of Manannan exhibition in Peel; the many Viking and Celtic crosses still standing against the capricious Manx weather as they have done for the last thousand years; the eerie and mysterious long barrow burial mounds, and the ghostly castles of Castletown and Peel. The latter comes complete with the legend of the Morghy Dhoo, the psychopathic black hell-hound said to be responsible for more than one poor unfortunates untimely demise!

And of course there are the Kippers. All very well getting a Beagle hooked on 60 Capstan Full Strength a day, but why should herring smoke? Who the hell smokes underwater anyway?! They must do it for the coupons, I reckon. As for evening entertainment, if you've been you know what the score is; if you haven't, then I just don't have space to tell. Think of a top notch rally with all the usual entertainment. Add choice, so if you don't fancy one band you can wander down the road and catch something you do.

Then put that whole lot INDOORS out of the weather. Add crazy stunt show antics on the prom. Add street entertainment and the terminally daft Purple Helmets and you (crudely) have the TT. Bikes? You are joking! Beer? They have it by the tanker-load. Mind you, don't go out for a ride looking for a country pub. I'm sure they must have them all hidden somewhere, coz with one or two exceptions, all the drinking establishments seem to be in the towns and villages. Handy if you're walking though.

Bands? Top quality acts from Van Morrison through tribute band Shades of Purple to more music you could get to see in just a week. Birds? Who do you think the girls from the Streetfighters party at Summerlands partied with? (Mind you, seeing Trevor Duckworth, Straightliners guru, tying himself in an alcohol-fuelled yogic granny knot, encouraged by Rachel, Skye and the girls did have a certain entertainment value! Nearly as funny as the Lycra, Trev!)

Birds? Who do you think the girls from the Streetfighters party at Summerlands partied with? (Mind you, seeing Trevor Duckworth, Straightliners guru, tying himself in an alcohol-fuelled yogic granny knot, encouraged by Rachel, Skye and the girls did have a certain entertainment value! Nearly as funny as the Lycra, Trev!) Scoff?

From Manx kippers or a lardy fry for breakfast to Chinese, Italian or a Ruby in the evening, or the absolutely exquisite haute cuisine of TV chef Kevin Woodford's quayside restaurant. The choice is agonising. And delicious. And when you're bored with all that? Well there's always the island roads again; always calling, always there. Guaranteed to bring a grin to your face regardless of the speed travelled.


So what more do you want from a bike event?
Why do you think people return to the TT year after year after endless year?
Why do you think a simple road race has survived and flourished for almost a hundred years?
What do you think people find so damned compulsive about the TT?

Will I go back again?

What do you think?!


By Tony Haines





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